Once a rogue, p.19
Once a Rogue, page 19
“Not exactly,” Sebastian admitted. “But Alasdair said the poison was activated by magic, that it turns the magic on the magic user and makes it attack our blood. Perhaps the poison is still active in me.”
“So the pulses could be a sign that your magic isn’t recovered—that using it might trigger the symptoms again?”
Sebastian nodded.
“Well, welcome to the mortal plane for an unknown amount of time, then,” Wesley said. “How do you feel otherwise?”
“Like I was run over by a stampede,” Sebastian said ruefully. He hesitated. “But I also feel...better, somehow? Like I’ve taken off chains now that I’ve lost the brooch.”
Wesley raised an eyebrow. “So is Alasdair going to regret stealing it?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian admitted. “I don’t know what it’s going to do to him, because I don’t know what Alasdair’s magic is. The brooch makes magic work on other magic. Maybe it’s only too much for a paranormal whose magic already works on other magic.”
Wesley’s thumb skimmed over his wrist again in a distracting way. He was looking at the tattoo thoughtfully. “Which magic was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said in Central Park that you had four kinds of magic. If you’ve lost the brooch, I assume you’re back down to three, but which one was interacting with the brooch before?”
Wesley was tracing the tattoo now and Sebastian was having a hard time concentrating. “The enervation magic. Well. I think.”
“You think.”
“I assumed it would be interacting with the most innate magic. I suppose I could be wrong, but it doesn’t really matter now.” Sebastian tried to find something else to look at besides the hypnotizing motions of Wesley’s thumb on his skin. His eyes fell on some rust-colored spots on Wesley’s white cuffs. “You have blood on your sleeve. Did you get hurt?”
Wesley shook his head. “It’s yours.” He tapped his own temple. “From the cut on your head. It’s not as if I have another shirt to change into, and at any rate I’m hardly concerned about a stain right now.” He let go of Sebastian’s wrist. “What’s our plan, then? I think we assume that telegram wasn’t actually from Miss Robbins.”
“Alasdair, or perhaps Sir Ellery, or maybe both,” Sebastian said.
“But then where are the others?” Wesley said. “This is the same damn problem we’ve had since we set foot in this country and they’re farther away than ever.”
“How did Alasdair know about the brooch?” Sebastian said slowly. “Jade and the others would never have told him.”
“Never have told him willingly,” Wesley said grimly. “What if he knows where they are? What if he’s the fucking reason we can’t find them?”
“Alasdair said he also runs a gambling den,” Sebastian said. “He said it’s not far from the speakeasy, in a fabric store called Ace Up Your Sleeve.”
“I bet he thinks that’s clever,” Wesley muttered.
“He could be lying,” Sebastian said. “Obviously he was lying about Sir Ellery being at the tables, but it’s still a lead. Maybe we should try to find it.”
“Maybe.” Wesley’s expression was pensive. “But last night, in the alley, as we were leaving, you said there was lead somewhere.”
Sebastian frowned. He tried to think back to the night before, which was a fuzzy, blurry mess.
“We’ll walk through it,” Wesley said, like he understood. “From my perspective, it appeared that Sir Ellery showed up alone. You started to use your magic, then fell. Sir Ellery aimed at you then, I disarmed him, and then a shot rang out and he dropped dead in front of my eyes. Alasdair, I presume?”
Sebastian nodded.
“But I don’t understand,” said Wesley. “I was defenseless. Why shoot his friend instead of me?”
Sebastian winced. “He wanted to let you two fight it out. Winner take all.”
“Christ.” Wesley’s jaw tightened. “So Langford was right, Alasdair is mad as a hatter, and he can turn invisible?”
“Not necessarily,” Sebastian said slowly. “The invisibility could be his magic, but there are potions and totems that can cause that effect as well. I’m starting to think his magic is something else.”
“Why?”
“Do you remember how Mateo was, in Yorkshire and Paris, lost to visions of the future? Or how Isabel painted her home in Spain to keep her mind from getting lost in colors?”
Wesley’s eyebrows went up. “You think he has some kind of subordinate magic? And that’s what’s affecting his mind?”
“It’s possible.”
“Mad magic men, why not,” Wesley muttered. “So he murders Sir Ellery and steals the brooch. Then what?”
“He ran,” said Sebastian, “and my magic went wild.”
“Yes, it did,” Wesley said bluntly. “I could barely think.”
“I heard you, though,” Sebastian said, eyes closed as he tried to bring the memory up. “It was like—like there was a stampede in my head, loud as thunder. Magic everywhere. Then I heard you, and that let me call the horses back.”
Sebastian kept his eyes closed, trying to remember what he’d felt. “Alasdair was gone. I think he knew my magic would go haywire and didn’t want to be affected.” He suddenly opened his eyes. “But there was lead. I felt it when my magic was loose, like a boulder at the edge of the water. Something big.”
“Lead in the alley?”
“No, a little farther,” Sebastian said. “I think we need to search the area.”
Chapter Nineteen
They walked back down the sidewalk, which had few people at that time of the morning. As they passed back by the alley, however, there was no evidence to be seen of the night before: no police officers, no blood stains on the bricks.
“No police,” Wesley observed, “despite there being a murdered baronet right in that alley. But then, it probably wouldn’t have taken more than a phone call for Alasdair to have a body outside his speakeasy cleaned up. In fact, the bouncers may have been expecting it.”
They ducked back into the cigar shop and newsstand, where they could survey the shop from across the street. The hat shop had a large Closed sign on its door, although Sebastian could see someone moving around inside, tidying and setting up.
He frowned. “How are we going to do this? Normally I’d just do a sweep with my magic, but—”
“But you’re not allowed to use your magic right now,” said Wesley. “You will answer to me personally if you so much as try.”
“But how do we search without magic?”
“With our eyes,” Wesley said dryly. “And our brains.”
Sebastian scrunched his nose.
“I’m choosing to interpret that face to mean that you can’t wait to show me how humbled you are now that you’ve realized magic isn’t everything.”
Sebastian sighed. “It was a lot of lead. We’re looking for something big.”
“What, like the paint on the shop’s walls?”
Sebastian shook his head. “That would have felt like—well, a wall. This felt like a boulder in the river of magic.”
“Large and leaden.” Wesley pulled out his cigarette pack, then stuffed it back in his pocket without taking a cigarette out. “A safe, perhaps? That seems like something Alasdair might have in the back of his hat shop or speakeasy.”
“And it would be a convenient place to hide anything magic,” Sebastian said.
They exchanged a glance. “I say we search.” Wesley’s face was set. “As I said last night, I’m tired of being jerked around. Alasdair decided to pick this fight; I don’t intend to run away.”
“I didn’t plan to show up at the fight unarmed,” Sebastian muttered.
“We’ll just have to get creative,” Wesley said, eying the shop across the street. “Come on. I have an idea.”
Sebastian trailed at Wesley’s feet as he confidently strode up to the haberdashery and banged on the window. “Excuse me. Sir! I need to speak with you.”
The man inside gave him a narrow-eyed look. “We open at ten,” he said, his voice muffled and just audible through the glass.
Wesley meaningfully pressed a twenty-dollar bill to the glass.
The shopkeeper’s eyes widened, and then he was hurrying over to the door. “Come on in, come on in,” the shopkeeper said, holding it open for Wesley and Sebastian. “We do sometimes open early, for special guests.”
The store was one small room, well-stocked with hats and ties and coats of all kinds. There was a counter at the back wall, and behind it, a door that was firmly shut.
“We’re quite special, I assure you,” Wesley said, as the bill changed hands. “I’m in a frightful bind. Masquerade tonight, haven’t got a tailcoat or top hat with me in America.”
“Happy to help you, sir,” the shopkeeper promised.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Wesley said. “And is there anyone else here who could attend to my companion?”
“It’s just me right now, I’m afraid,” the shopkeeper said apologetically. “Steve won’t be in for another hour at least.”
“So you’re here alone? And will be for another hour?” said Wesley. “Well, I suppose we’ll make do, then. Where do you keep your formalwear selection? Is it over here?”
Wesley strode off toward the far back corner of the shop. Sebastian walked up to the counter instead, eyes on the door behind it. If there was a safe, he’d bet it was in the back.
Sebastian leaned on the counter, frowning. If only he could use his magic now—keep the shopkeeper down while he broke the back door—
There was a thud, a muffled yelp and then another thump. Sebastian looked over his shoulder in surprise.
“I’ve got him down and I’m tying him up,” came Wesley’s voice, from the back corner. “Do hurry, won’t you? Steve might show up early, after all.”
“Be careful, they might hear him in the street—”
“I’m not an amateur, duck, he’s already gagged.”
Sebastian hurried behind the register. The door was unlocked, and he slowly opened it, revealing a set of stairs trailing down out of sight.
Down, where the speakeasy was.
Another muffled, indignant yelp came from the back corner of the store, then Wesley was walking his way.
“Our new friend is tied to the radiator. I’ve no idea how skilled he might be at escape, so let’s assume we have only a couple minutes, shall we?” He glanced past Sebastian. “Back door into the speakeasy?”
They took the stairs down together in quiet, cautious steps. The final step opened into a short hallway. The kitchens were up ahead while a door stood along the wall. They stopped for a moment and listened, but the speakeasy was silent.
Sebastian opened the one door to a small room that held a messy desk, a filing cabinet—and a free-standing black safe on the back wall, a sizable one with a keyhole.
“Got the safe, now we need the key,” said Wesley.
Sebastian went straight to the desk and began opening the drawers, scanning each one and pulling it out to check underneath, as Wesley slipped out the door and back into the hall.
Sebastian had just reached the final drawer when Wesley strode back in, holding up a metal key.
“How’d you find that?” Sebastian said, delighted.
Wesley coughed. “I might have been watching Alasdair very closely when the two of you were talking.”
“Really? Why?” Sebastian said curiously. “We didn’t know he was a paranormal then.”
“No, but he was so bloody interested in you, and I was—well, I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Wesley said quickly. “Point being, I saw him put something in the drawer beneath the cash register at the bar. And now we have the key.”
A moment later, Wesley was swinging the safe door open. “Let’s see.” He crouched in front of the safe. “We’ve got the usual suspects: cash, papers, cash, jewelry, yet more cash. Apparently bootlegging is quite lucrative.”
Sebastian’s gaze had gone straight to the tiny box on top of a bundle of bills. “Wes.”
Wesley followed his gaze. “Is that box for cuff links? Or a ring, perhaps?”
“Rory kept his ring relic in a box like that when I saw it in London,” Sebastian said.
“You think that could be Brodigan’s?” Wesley said, eyebrows flying up. “But if Alasdair already had a relic, why not use it?”
“It’s bound to Rory,” Sebastian said. “It’s not going to work for anyone else until he’s dead.”
They exchanged a glance.
Sebastian swallowed. “What if—”
“No,” Wesley said brusquely. “Brodigan’s not dead. No one who vexes me that much would ever die. We’re proceeding on the assumption the lot of them are alive.”
Sebastian let out a breath. “Okay,” he said, reaching into the cabinet. He touched the ring box, and painful pinpricks shot up his fingers.
“This is lead too.” He ignored the needle-like sting against his skin as he encircled the box in his hand. “So we should take this—Wesley,” he said, as Wesley took him firmly by the wrist and pulled his hand away.
“Why are you touching something that hurts you?”
“Because—”
“Why are you touching anything magic, period?”
“Well—”
“We’re not taking chances with things that might send you back into that fever daze,” Wesley said. “Hands to yourself.”
“But—”
Wesley had already reached into the safe and picked up the ring box. “You have a perfectly serviceable mortal right here. I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want you touching magic either!”
“What kind of posturing fool do you take me for? Of course I’m not touching magic. But I can hold this lead box and open it for your eyes with neither of us taking the risk or experiencing pain.” Wesley cracked the top of the ring box.
Sebastian stilled at the sight of the familiar jewels, a ring he’d seen in a pub in London in the spring, when he and Rory had talked about relics. “Yes,” Sebastian said quietly, “it’s Rory’s.”
“I see.” Wesley snapped the box shut. “Well. We’re taking this with us, then. Or I’m taking it with us, to be precise. You’re not touching it until we’re certain your magic is healed.” He tucked it away in his jacket. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They scrambled back up the main stairs. “But why does Alasdair have Rory’s ring?” Sebastian said, as they stepped into the alley. “And where are the others?”
“Maybe we find this gambling den next?” Wesley said. “Alasdair told you it was close. We should search—shit.”
Sebastian followed Wesley’s gaze down the alley. “Oh no.”
Major Langford was across the street, looking in the cigar store with a grim expression.
“Hell and damnation.” Wesley pursed his lips. “How could it possibly be coincidence that he’s this close to where Sir Ellery was shot?”
“It can’t be,” Sebastian said. “We have to get him out of here.”
Major Langford stepped farther down the street, disappearing from sight. “Come on,” Wesley muttered. They quickly darted out from the alley. Sebastian scanned the street: two pedestrians. A car parked at the curb. No Alasdair.
Wesley started crossing the street. “Major,” he called brusquely.
Langford turned, his gaze going to Wesley, then Sebastian. His expression went stonily unreadable. “Fine, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Wesley pointed out, as Sebastian joined them in front of the pharmacy.
“I’m looking for Sir Ellery,” Major Langford said testily. “We went out last night, played cards at another place Alasdair runs. I turned in after, but Sir Ellery said he was popping ’round here to see Alasdair and get a last drink. We were to meet for breakfast this morning, but he didn’t show.”
Sebastian just managed not to wince.
“He told us he was staying with the Hartmans, in their guest house,” Wesley said, expression blank and not at all like he’d seen Sir Ellery shot the night before. “Did you try there?”
“Of course I did. He’s not there either. Lady Blanche also mentioned her husband is weathering a flu.” Major Langford’s eyes darted to Sebastian and narrowed. “That’s all I can say. For the moment,” he finished meaningfully.
A flu—or an illness like Sebastian had gone through the night before? Could Sir Ellery or Alasdair have slipped something to Walter Hartman too? Alasdair had said it only worked on paranormals, but what was to say he’d draw the line against poisoning someone without magic?
Wesley’s jaw tightened, but Sebastian spoke first. “Lord Fine, maybe you and the major should have a conversation.”
Wesley’s irritated expression didn’t budge. “I’ve told the major he can speak freely in front of both of us.”
Langford smiled without humor. “Remind me: when were you put in charge of who I decide to speak freely with?” He turned back to his car. “I’m going over to the Hartmans’ home now, see if I can get some goddamn answers.”
Wesley again looked like he was about to speak. “Maybe you should go with him,” Sebastian said first.
Wesley’s gaze snapped to Sebastian. “Just me?”
“Someone should stay and finish our business here.” They’d found Rory’s ring; they needed to follow that lead, but if someone in the Hartman home had been poisoned, they needed to know that too. “We can meet back at the inn—the horse one, not the cat one.”
Major Langford gave Sebastian another long, suspicious look. Then he turned away. “Are you coming, Fine?”
Wesley turned to Sebastian.
“We need to know what he knows; we need to know why Walter Hartman is sick,” Sebastian said quietly. “And he’s not going to talk with me there. I’ll check Alasdair’s other place.”
